The Sun Down Motel (16 page)

Fell, New York

October 1982

Jenny never spent her days off at home. She talked a lot about sitting in front of the TV eating candy as her perfect day off, but when the day came she never did it. Instead she spent her days off at the mall, spending her small paycheck on records or makeup or new shoes—loafers or low, pointy heels in rainbow colors like bright red or bright yellow, shoes she couldn’t wear to work at the nursing home but wanted to have for “going to a party.” Viv had never seen Jenny go to a party, but then again she hadn’t been living with her all that long.

Today she was at the mall again, probably to see a movie or drink an Orange Julius or do any of the things Viv would have done at the mall back in Illinois six months ago. Instead of sleeping, Viv used the time home alone to find the traveling salesman.

She pulled the phone over to the kitchen table, using its extra-long cord, something Jenny had so she could wander and talk at the same time. Next to the phone she thumped down Fell’s phone book and her notebook with a pen. Then, still in her terry bathrobe, Viv went into the kitchen, took out a box of Ritz crackers and a jar of Velveeta cheese with a knife, and sat down to work.

She flipped to the back of her notebook and took out the photographs
Marnie Mahoney had given her. There were only three that had what she wanted in them, but three was plenty. They all showed the Sun Down Motel at night, the lights on the corridors contrasting to the dark. One showed Mr. White opening the door of his room with a key. The second showed Helen entering that same room. The third showed Viv herself, leaving the
AMENITIES
room with a chocolate bar in her hand, walking back to the office.

Viv looked at herself in the photo, the girl she couldn’t quite believe was her. She had a nice profile, clear pale skin, her hair pushed back from her face and clipped into a barrette. Anyone would think she was a nice enough girl, a pretty girl, if a little sad. Viv thought,
Who am I?

But the girl wasn’t what was valuable about the photo. All three pictures had caught a car in the parking lot, the back end of the car cut off by the frame. If you put the first and third photos together you could piece together the license plate number. The second photo, framed just right, caught the entire thing.

The traveling salesman’s car.

Viv glanced at the telephone. She should call Alma Trent; she had promised she would. Alma had told her get
something, anything
, and she’d help identify the man who checked into the motel. But Alma also hadn’t believed Viv. She’d thought the entire thing crazy.

Viv spread some cheese on a cracker and flipped through the Fell phone book. She closed her eyes and summoned the acting classes she’d taken after high school. She’d been good at acting, good at being someone else. It was one of the few things that made her feel better, being another person for a while.

She got into character. Then she called the DMV.

“Hello,” she said when she got someone on the line. “I’ve just received a call from my insurance company that there’s a problem with my husband’s registration. Can you please help me?”

“Ma’am, I don’t—”

“He’s away on the road,” Viv said. “My husband. He’s traveling for
work, and if he comes home and finds our insurance canceled, he’ll be so angry. So angry.” She tried channeling Honey from
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
—helpless, sweet, a little pathetic. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what the problem is. Can you please just check?”

“It isn’t—”

Viv interrupted by reciting the license plate number and the make and model, which she got from the photo. “That’s the one. We’ve had it for years.
Years.
I don’t know how there could be a problem all of a sudden. My husband says—”

“Please hold, ma’am.”

There was a click, and silence. Viv held the receiver, her hand slick with sweat.

There was another click. “Ma’am, I don’t see a problem with this registration.”

“Are you sure?”

“There’s nothing wrong at all. It’s registered to Mr. Hess with no changes.”

Mr. Hess.
Viv felt light-headed, but she forced herself to keep calm, stay in character. “Oh, thank God,” she said. “And you’re sure the address is right?”

“You’re still on Fairview Avenue?” the woman said.

“Yes. Yes, we are.”

“It all looks fine to me.”

Viv thanked the woman and told her she’d call the insurance company back to work it out. Then she hung up. She had cold sweat running down between her shoulders, beneath her bathrobe. Her mouth felt dry and hot.

She ate another cracker and drank some milk, then flipped through the phone book again, breathing deep. She let Honey go and let her mind travel, thinking up a new character.

There were only two Hesses in the phone book, and only one was listed on Fairview Avenue. Viv got into character again—tougher, brassier this time—and called the number.

A woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Hess?”

“Yes.”

“This is your husband’s scheduling service.” Viv tried to sound brisk, professional, like a secretary in an office. “We’re not sure if we’ve made a mistake over here. Do you know if your husband is on his way to New York today?”

“New York? I don’t think so. He told me he was going to Buffalo two days ago. But perhaps his plans changed.” The woman laughed. “I guess you’d know that better than I would, right?”

“Like I say, Mrs. Hess, we may have had a mix-up. We’re waiting for Mr. Hess to check in, but we thought we’d call and ask.”

“That’s all right. Westlake’s scheduling service isn’t usually this concerned.”

Westlake.
Viv flipped madly through the phone book. “We try to keep our salesmen organized. Sometimes things fall through the cracks.”

“Well, I haven’t talked to Simon today. If he calls I’ll be sure to tell him to check in.”

“We appreciate that, ma’am. Mr. Hess is always punctual about calling in. I’m sure we’ll hear from him soon.”

Viv said good-bye to the woman and hung up. She ate another cracker. She opened her notebook and picked up her pen. Turning to a blank page, she wrote:

Mr. Simon Hess

373 Fairview Avenue

Salesman for Westlake Lock Systems

She added his home phone number, Westlake’s phone number, and his license plate and car.

And beneath that, she couldn’t help but write:

That was easy.

She stared at the words for a minute. She looked back at the phone book and flipped back through the pages, finding the
W
section. She was
thinking about her father, about the divorce. About the angry meetings with lawyers, about her mother coming home and throwing things, telling Viv she wasn’t good enough.

You probably shouldn’t do this
, a voice in her head said.

And then, another voice:
I really don’t care.

She ran her finger down the
W
names until she found the one she was looking for.
White.
There were a dozen Whites in Fell, but only one was listed as
R. White
.

Again, easy.

She dialed the number. She didn’t bother getting into character this time.

Again, a woman answered. “Hello?”

“Mrs. White?”

“Yes.”

“Your husband is cheating on you,” Viv said, and hung up.

Viv’s head was throbbing by the time she got to Fairview Avenue, driving her Cavalier. She was supposed to be asleep right now; she’d only had a brief nap at eight o’clock this morning. It was two o’clock in the afternoon now, and she felt like she’d never sleep again.

Fairview Avenue was pretty, at least for Fell: bungalows with lawns, trees that would be leafy in summer. Viv drove the street slowly, peering at the house numbers in the gloomy October afternoon light. Number 373 had a car in front of it—a Volvo, the wife’s car.

It was here that she had to admit she didn’t know what exactly to do next. The traveling salesman was supposed to be in Buffalo; she didn’t have a picture of him or know anything about him except where he lived. She had no answers to why he checked into the Sun Down with false names, or what he was doing there when he already had a home in Fell. She didn’t know where he came from or who his friends were. She didn’t know if he had children.

She didn’t know whether he had anything to do with Betty or Cathy or Victoria. All she had was a man’s name and address.

She should probably give up. Instead she parked around the corner, next to a small park. From her window she could see the driveway of the Hess house. She turned off the car and rubbed her face.
I should take out my notebook
, she thought,
and write some notes about what to do next.

She leaned back in the driver’s seat and was asleep before she could finish the thought.

When she woke, it was dark. She had a brief, disoriented flash in which she thought it was the middle of the night and she was supposed to be at the Sun Down. She looked at her watch and saw that it was only six o’clock, the early dark of the end of the year. She was shivering, and a cold wind buffeted the car.

She sat up and smoothed her hair, and then she went still.

There was a second car in the Hess driveway. The traveling salesman’s car.

Without thinking she opened the driver’s door and got out. If she hesitated, she would never do it.
Go, just go.
She walked around the corner toward the Hess house, trying not to flinch as a car drove past her on the quiet street, some nice man coming home from work. She waited until the taillights were in the distance and then she ducked around the side of the Hess house, crouching in the shadows of the garden.

This is crazy.

I don’t care.

It was freeing, this not caring. She was unmoored from everything: family, friends, home, her real life. Even time had stopped having meaning since she started at the Sun Down, the days and nights jumbled into a long stretch that was as understandable as ancient Sanskrit. She looked at people anchored by time—get up in the morning, go to sleep at night, come home from work at six o’clock—as people she politely shared the world with but didn’t understand. Why did people bother? The nights were so long now; it was night in the morning and it was night now. It was all darkness broken briefly by muddled gray light. Even now it could
be three o’clock in the morning as she sat in the traveling salesman’s garden. Who was to say it wasn’t?

A light came on in a window a few feet away. Viv sidled toward it, listening. She didn’t hear children’s voices. Somehow it would make things worse to know that children lived with the traveling salesman, like seeing a toddler walk onto an empty road.
Move, move, run!
If the salesman was who she thought he was, he should live alone with his wife—Viv pictured a pale, wilted woman, long given up on life—and no one else. It fit.

Viv squat-walked toward the lit window, then carefully raised herself to peek into the corner. It was the kitchen, and a woman was standing at the sink, her back to Viv, the water running as she rinsed dishes. She wore pants that were elastic at the waist and a roomy T-shirt. With the practiced eye of a girl in theater, Viv noted that the woman’s clothes were handmade on a sewing machine.

A man walked into the kitchen. He was of average height, average build, trim and clean-shaven with short hair brushed back from his forehead. He wore dress pants and a dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves and no tie. His face was square, his eyes small and nondescript. The last time she’d seen him, he’d smiled at her with a smile that didn’t fit his face and made her queasy.
I guess I’m just that memorable
, he’d said. Without a word he put a plate on the counter next to the woman and left the room again.

Hello, Simon Hess
, Viv thought.

The woman, she knew, would tell her husband about the strange phone call she got today. The scheduling service that had thought he was in New York. And the traveling salesman would look puzzled and say to his wife,
Of course they knew where I was. Why would they call?
Perhaps they’d already had this little exchange; a simple phone call to his company would tip him off that someone he didn’t know had called about him. Viv had to move fast.

She ducked from the window again and squat-walked to the back yard, opening the latch to the backyard gate and peering in. It was a
suburban fenced back yard, with a patio and a lawn in the dark. Still no sign of children’s toys. Viv closed the gate again and backed out.

She had no idea what she was looking for—just
something
. Something that would put her closer to him, reveal something about him. She walked low against the house to the front again and saw the salesman’s car in the driveway.

She crouched and moved to it. Peeked in the windows. The car was clean, as if he had bought it yesterday. No rips in the upholstery. No wrappers or junk. Nothing that said a man had just traveled in this car to Buffalo and back, that a man traveled in this car all the time.

She circled the car. If someone came by right now, she would be in plain view. The neighbor across the street could likely see her if he was looking out his window. The house across the street was dark with no car in the driveway. Still, she had to be fast.

The passenger seat had a few pieces of paper on it. Viv tried the passenger door and when it opened, unlocked, her blood went hot and pounding in her veins. She reached in and picked up the papers.

It was a schedule, typed up and run through a ditto machine. The ink smelled like school, and for a second Viv was dizzy with memories of class. Then she focused on what she was reading. It was a schedule, the words typed neatly.

Monday: Mr. Alan Leckie, 52 Farnham Rd., Poughkeepsie.

Wednesday: Terra Systems, Bank Street, Rochester.

Thursday: Monthly meeting at head office.

Viv almost laughed. This was from the salesman’s actual scheduling department, the one she’d pretended to be a few hours ago. She flipped back and saw the schedule for the previous week, and the week before that. How long did they keep records? She wondered.